


A City in Alaska

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, F/M, Infidelity, Juno - Freeform, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you, um." Joe's fingers curl in the hair at the nape of Patrick's neck, comforting. "Do you want to get a test?" No, Patrick does not want to get a test. Getting a test implies that he thinks he's pregnant, and he's sixteen and a dude and, oh god, there's a good chance that he's with child. Joe manages to keep his commentary to himself when Patrick pukes again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A City in Alaska

Joe is a pretty cool dude. He's funny and good looking in a quirky way and has fucking fantastic taste in music. He plays guitar and watches shitty movies and tells the worst jokes ever. He's friendly and open minded and, most importantly, questioning his sexuality. 

All these factors make him the perfect candidate to take Patrick's virginity.

It's just. Patrick is _sixteen_ and the most action he's gotten is that time in eighth grade with Mary Sheller behind their shared music stand. Her braces cut his lip and his glasses scratched her face, and it had been awkward for the rest of the year. The whole thing was a disappointment, to say the least.

So Joe is option number one. If he says no, there's always Craigslist. Patrick grimaces and pulls a pen from his bag, trying not to attract the attention of the teacher at the blackboard. It's so elementary that he wants to laugh. _Do you like me, check yes or no?_ He bites his lip to keep his nervous giggles in and carefully writes, to his own amusement, _Do you want to fuck me? Y/N?_ Nervously, he glances around, hand covering the question, but no one's looking anywhere near his direction.

_Man up or shut up_ , he tells himself and kicks the back of Joe's chair in front of him. Joe looks back over his shoulder and Patrick swallows down the fear creeping up the back of his throat. He hands Joe the note- folded up like a paper football- and chews the inside of his cheek.

Joe glances over it. His head jerks up, face going red. He stares for a moment, and Patrick's heart skips a beat. Shit. He totally just fucked up an awesome friendship, and Joe's going to tell people he's a freak, and-

Joe tosses the note back over. The corner catches Patrick in the middle of the forehead, making him go cross-eyed for a moment. On the outside, Joe's drawn a smiley face and written _totally_. Patrick grins at him and Joe grins back.

Awesome.

\---

They pick Joe's basement as The Spot. It's not romantic, but Patrick kind of just wants to fuck and then play Mario Kart. Beside him, Joe's shifting anxiously, his socks making soft sounds on the carpet. Patrick nods and looks over the basement he's been in a hundred times before. It's kind of cramped, and the TV takes up most of the room, but there's also a plushy chair that looks like it could be useful if they finagle a bit. He swallows and sets his backpack down. 

"Okay," he says uselessly. "Let's. Um. Let's go." Joe laughs and the tension breaks.

"Dude, we totally suck at this," Joe says. Patrick snorts. "Hey. After, we're still going to be cool, right? Like, it's not going to get-" He waves his hand and Patrick shakes his head.

"No. Dude, no. This is just, you know. One of those things." Patrick cringes. "I'm going to shut up and kiss you now, okay?" He catches Joe's laugh with his mouth, which is weird but also really, really nice. 

Joe kisses sweetly, softly. His hands move to Patrick's hips, settling there like he's afraid Patrick's going to change his mind. The first touch of his tongue to Patrick's is a little surprising, but not unwanted. Patrick makes a soft noise into his mouth and wraps his hands around Joe's biceps, anchoring himself. This is really going to happen. 

"You should sit down," he says a little breathlessly, and Joe nods dumbly.

Joe scruffs his shirt and settles onto the chair, pink cheeked and wide-eyed. Patrick nods again. He can do this. It's just Joe; sweet, funny, good looking Joe, who has a hard on for Patrick, holy shit.

Patrick pulls off his own shirt and drops it to the floor before crawling into Joe's lap. The chair is soft under his knees and Joe rocks up against him and, hey, that's totally awesome. 

"Do you," Joe starts, fingers crawling up Patrick's sides. "Um. Do you have a condom?" Fuck. Patrick shakes his head. Fucking stupid, seriously. How could he forget? "Have you. You know?"

"No," Patrick says, staring at the wall over Joe's shoulder. Joe rubs his warm hands over Patrick's hips.

"Me either," he says. "Do you. I mean. we're clean, right? So."

"Yeah." Patrick swallows and reaches for the fly of Joe's jeans. "That totally works." Joe smiles, bright and open, and Patrick's glad that it's him he's going to do it with.

\---

Things actually don't get awkward, which is great. Joe buys a pack of condoms and shyly asks Patrick if he'd like to go again. It's awesome. It's _fantastic_. They fuck and eat pizza and play music, and it's _great_. They have an awkward, stilted conversation about if they're a _thing_ or not, and Patrick feels a surge of guilty relief when they agree that they're not. Joe's amazing, but. It's just not something he wants.

Things in general are pretty good for a few weeks. Patrick aces his Biology quiz, pulls a B plus on his English paper, and finishes two songs that are pretty decent. Life is going sort of great.

On a whole, Patrick's a pretty healthy guy. So when he wakes up with the strong urge to vomit, he automatically begins to worry. It goes away before school, so he accounts it to eating pizza at midnight and promptly forgets about it, caught up in the rush of being late.

The thing is, though, he keeps getting sick. He makes it a point to stop eating after eight and even eliminates the greaser levels of cafeteria food from his diet in an effort to make it stop. It always goes away before class, and somehow he's hungrier than ever, but it just. Isn't right.

"Maybe you're pregnant," Joe says when Patrick tells him about it, laughing into his milk carton. Then, his face goes white. Patrick feels ill again. "Oh shit."

Shit, indeed. Patrick nearly runs the principal over on his mad dash out of the cafeteria. He can hear Joe running after him, but that's secondary to the need to puke _right the fuck now_. He skids to the floor as soon as he's in the bathroom, shoving open the first stall door and crawling in.

He still misses the toilet.

"Gross," Joe says, delicately stepping over the puddle. He locks the door and stands awkwardly over Patrick's legs. Patrick feels claustrophobic, stuffed in with Joe and the vomit puddle.

"I hate you," he groans, dropping his forehead to the toilet seat. He hears Joe's noise of disgust, but he doesn't really care.

"Dude, dude pregnancies are, like, one in thirty thousand." Joe squats, rubbing Patrick's back with his large, warm hand. "And we only, you know, without a condom once." He laughs a little hysterically. It doesn't help to calm Patrick's frayed nerves. "First time, dude."

"Oh my god, _shut up_ ," Patrick groans. "I have to get out of here."

"Do you, um." Joe's fingers curl in the hair at the nape of Patrick's neck, comforting. "Do you want to get a test?" No, Patrick does not want to get a test. Getting a test implies that he thinks he's pregnant, and he's _sixteen_ and a _dude_ and, oh god, there's a good chance that he's _with child_. Joe manages to keep his commentary to himself when Patrick pukes again.

\---

Joe hands him the test like he's handing over a bomb. Patrick swallows and accepts it carefully. He's downed nearly a gallon of Arizona Tea and he has to piss like never before. Joe offers to come in with him but-

"Dude, you're never watching me piss," Patrick says, closing the bathroom door. "That's too far."

It's a stick. There's a little screen and a metal thing on the end that he has to whizz on, and that's it. He's got this. He'll piss on the stick, get a negative, and go to the hospital with a weird flu or something. This is just. Precaution. 

It's totally bizarre, and Patrick will never tell anyone ever about how awkward it is, but after a few moments he has a gross stick and a five minute wait that's going to determine the rest of his life.

Joe walks in when there's a minute left, peeking in like he's not sure if he's welcome. He's as pale as Patrick is, his bleached hair messy from running his hands through it. They normally don't do it, but Joe holds Patrick's hand until the timer goes off, his palm slick and warm.

"I don't want to know," Patrick says, covering his eyes. He thrusts the test at Joe blindly, ignoring Joe's shouts of _gross, oh my god_. "Look at it but don't, like, tell me." Joe takes the stick from him delicately. There's a long pause. "Joe?"

"Patrick-"

Oh, god.

\---

"What are we going to do?" Joe asks once Patrick's calmed down. He's on his bed, watching Patrick pace back and forth, head in his hands. Patrick wants to curl up and die.

"I can't. We need." He finally drops to the floor, hands flying to his stomach as he lands. There's a microscopic _thing_ growing in there, living off of him like a parasite. Woah. "I can't keep it."

"What are- Jesus, how did this happen?" Joe tugs at his hair, frenzied. Patrick feels guilt boiling through him. If he would have just kept his stupid fucking note to himself, they wouldn't have this problem. 

"I need to go home." Patrick swallows thickly and stands. "I need some time to think."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay," Joe says sympathetically. "Fuck. I'm sorry, dude. I'm so fucking sorry."

"Two to tango, right?" Patrick asks, trying and failing to sound cheerful. Joe winces. "I'll see you Monday."

"If you need anything-"

"Yeah." Patrick collects his bag and does his best not to cry.

\---

Patrick has never really been close to Kevin. They talk, sure, and occasionally watch TV together, but Patrick's never really gone to him for much. He's thinking about this as he raises his hand to knock on Kevin's door, reconsidering. It's too late to turn back now. The handle twists, and then Kevin's there, looking a little confused. 

"Hey," Patrick says to his brother's chest. "Got a minute?"

"Yeah, sure." Kevin ushers him in, closing the door as Patrick sinks down onto his bed. "What's u- Are you okay?" Patrick shakes his head. No, no he's not. "What's wrong?"

"I'm." Patrick looks at his hands, turning them over in his lap. He still hasn't said it out loud, and saying out loud will make it true. _Now or never_ , he thinks bitterly. "I'm pregnant."

"Oh, Patrick." Kevin hugs him, strong and sure, and Patrick finally lets himself cry. Fuck being strong. He's a kid and pregnant and _scared_. Kevin makes soothing noises into his hair, rocking him and rubbing his back. "It's okay. You're okay."

When he's finished, Patrick feels exhausted. He lets his arms go loose around Kevin's back and snuffles. Kevin rubs his back again before dropping down next to him.

"Does mom know?" He asks. Patrick shakes his head. Not yet. He can't tell her yet. "What are you going to do?"

"I think," he starts, feeling vaguely nauseous, "that I'm going to get rid of it."

The sick feeling in his chest has nothing to do with the thing- he can't bring himself to think _baby_ , _child, mine_ \- inside of him, changing his inner workings. Kevin doesn't say anything; just hugs him again. 

"How long have you known?" He asks after a few moments. 

"Today," Patrick answers. He wipes his wrist across his nose, grimacing when it comes away wet. "A couple of hours ago."

"It's a big decision," Kevin says after a pause. "Maybe you should give it a couple of days?" His voice is soothing, and Patrick thinks guiltily of all the times he's given Kevin grief. "Hey, I'm here if you need anything, you know?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Patrick lets Kevin lead him out, not missing the way his brother glances at his stomach. When he's in the hallway, he stops, heart in his throat. "Hey. I love you, dude." Kevin grins and knuckles Patrick's head through his cap.

"Being pregnant doesn't actually make you a chick," he says. Patrick laughs and feels better for it

\---

"I think I'm going to, um, abort it," Patrick says into the phone three days later, stumbling over the words. Joe's silent on the other side long enough to make Patrick squirm. 

"Okay," Joe says finally. Patrick lets out a soft, relived breath. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"No." Patrick curls around his stomach. He's feeling sick again. "I think I'm going to ask Kevin to take me on Saturday."

"Okay," Joe says again. There's a beat before he adds, "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault, dude." Patrick closes his eyes and presses the end key. He calls the clinic after and sets up an appointment.

He doesn't sleep.

\---

The week crawls by. The morning sickness comes in ebbs and waves, and he can't stop eating pickles, but he's okay. Getting used to it. No one stares at him weirdly except Joe. The only weirdness he really experiences at all is in his own head.

He's never been so relieved for a weekend. Saturday morning, his mother keeps asking him if he's sick, and it's killing him keeping it inside. He can't tell her now, not when the problem is almost gone. He just has to get through the day and things will be fine. His mother smiles at him over breakfast and asks about his plans for the day. He nearly chokes on his eggs.

Thankfully, Kevin steps in with a quick, "We're going to the mall." Their mother smiles. Patrick's stomach roils.

The drive to the clinic in the city is quiet. Patrick's thankful for it, staring out the window at the passing houses. There's not a lot to say, and he doesn't really want to hear any of it anyway. When they pull into the parking lot, he feels himself go tight.

"Could you stay out here?" He asks as he undoes his seatbelt. Kevin looks at him for a moment before nodding, cutting off the engine. Patrick nods back and opens the door. He's got this. He can do it.

Except he can't because there's someone sitting on the steps. Patrick clenches his jaw when he recognizes Greta, a girl from his music class. She frowns when she sees him, and Patrick winces. Shit. Totally, totally not what he needs right now. 

"Hey," he says when he reaches her. She's blocking the door, and his appointment is in exactly six minutes. The timer on his watch clicks over and he looks anxiously past Greta's shoulder.

"Patrick? Are you-" She reaches out to touch his stomach but stops. "How far along are you?" Patrick shifts nervously from heel to toe. He's going to be _late_.

"Eight weeks," he chokes out. There seems to be a lump in his throat. Eight weeks. Two months. Greta looks at him sadly.

"It has ears now," she says, staring just south of the decal on Patrick's shirt. "He can hear." Patrick closes his eyes. The baby can _hear_. It's heard him talking and singing; it's heard music. It _knows_ things. "Patrick?"

"I can't do this," he says. Not when the baby knows something. Baby. It's a baby now, not a fistful of cells replicating at superspeed. Greta smiles at him softly.

"You're making the right choice," she says, and Patrick thinks he'll never really know. 

"Thanks," he shouts over his shoulder, already jogging back to Kevin's car, trying to separate himself from the clinic as quickly as he can.

Kevin startles when he jerks the door open, eyebrows raised. He says, "Do you want me to come in with you?"

"I'm not doing it." Patrick climbs into the car and slams the door, leaning against it. His heart is pounding like he's run a marathon. "I'm going to stay pregnant." It hangs in the air, definitive.

"You sure about this?" Kevin asks. Patrick nods, sure. He can't go back now. "Let's go tell mom."

\---

"Mom, I." Patrick tugs at his hat and glances up at Kevin. He can't bring himself to look at his mother sitting on the sofa. Her worried look is killing him. "I have to tell you something."

"What is it honey?" She asks, leaning toward him. "Are you okay? Is it school?"

"No, mom, it's." Patrick crosses his arms over his chest, uncrosses them. There's a small track in the carpet left over from where he's been pacing. 

"Just say it," Kevin says, knocking the toe of his sneaker against Patrick's thigh on his way past. He makes a gesture towards their mother and raises his eyebrows. Patrick nods. Okay. Okay, he just have to spit out and get it over with. 

"I'm pregnant," he says in a rush. It should be easier to say each time, but it really, really isn't. His mother sinks back against the sofa, her hand over her mouth. 

"Oh, baby." She reaches for him, scooting to the edge of the sofa. He drops down into the space she's left for him, accepting her hug gratefully. He doesn't know what he had been expecting, but this is exactly what he needs. 

"I want to try adoption," he says into her shoulder. "Like, people want to have kids all the time and can't, right? So, maybe I could finds some people who wouldn't mind my genes, you know? Joe already said he'd help and-"

"Patrick." His mother holds him at arm's length, looking over him. Her eyes are damp, but she looks more disappointed than angry. It breaks Patrick's heart. "Calm down, sweetie. Tomorrow we'll go to the doctor and get you started on prenatal vitamins. Then we'll look for people, okay?"

Patrick nods again, swallowing down the swell of emotions in his chest as his mother hugs him again. He feels better with her knowing. She always knows the way to help. His stomach twists at the thought of the baby. He couldn't do this. Not like his mom. He's not ready.

\---

"Ooh, Mormons." Joe points to a photo of an already overlarge family, sucking on one of Patrick's pickles. "Six kids and counting. They're, like, collectors or something." Patrick snorts.

"Yeah, no," he says, scribbling over the ad with marker. He takes a bite of the pickle Joe's still holding before snatching the paper up for himself. This is day six of adoption hunting and so far they haven't found anyone that's met Patrick's standards. 

Then again, maybe the Pennysaver isn't the most reliable source for wanna-parents-to-be.

"Okay, last page," Patrick says, closing his eyes. "If there's nothing on this one, I'm filing in with an adoption agency." He flips the page and cracks open his eyes hopefully.

On the bottom of the page, there's a black and white photo of two of the most beautiful people he's ever seen. Patrick's heart stutters as he glances over the ad. 

"They're the ones," Patrick breathes out, tracing the happy curves of their faces. He just. He knows. Joe peeks over his shoulder and nods. 

"Wentz?" He asks before shrugging. "Could be Stumph-Trohman, so I guess it could be worse."

"Why am I the girl in that?" Patrick scowls when Joe waves the last bite of the pickle at his stomach. "Fuck you, Trohman."

"In your condition, dude?" 

"I'll show you condition," Patrick says before tackling Joe to the ground. He clips the ad and calls as soon as he gets home.

\---

Two weeks later, Patrick's standing on the Wentz's front porch with Kevin, shifting anxiously back and forth. These people- these wealthy, beautiful people- are going to looking at him and judging his _genes_ , and he's sort of heart set on them being the parents for his baby. The thought makes him squirm.

"You okay?" Kevin asks as he knocks. Patrick shrugs. Maybe. Yes. 

There's a rush of noise on the other side, and then the door is opening. Patrick holds his breath as Pete's face pops around the door, live and breathing and real. The smile he gives them almost matches the one in the photo Patrick's taped inside his Math notebook for luck. 

"Hey," he says. His voice is low, naturally rough. "So, I'm Pete. It's nice to meet you." He leads them through a dining room into an impressive living room where Ashlee and a woman Patrick doesn't recognize are sitting on a couch, talking quietly to one another. "This is my wife, Ashlee, and our lawyer Amanda Palmer." Ashlee pushes herself off the couch, walking towards them with quick clicks of her heels.

She's beautiful, her round face pale and bright, her blonde hair in curls around her shoulders. She passes any preamble and hugs Patrick as soon as she reaches him, gathering him up against her chest. She smells like peaches, soft and warm when Patrick hesitantly hugs her back. It's weird, but the little flutter in his chest is saying _her, it's her, she's going to be the mother of your baby_. When she pulls back, Ashlee's cheeks are pink, but her smile hasn't faded.

"Sorry," she says, looking anything but. "I'm just so. Pete and I tried for a while to have one of our own, but." She touches her own abdomen through the soft silk of her blouse, smiling sadly. "Not meant to be I guess?"

"That's what I'm here for right?" Patrick kind of wants her to hug him again, but instead he sits on the couch opposite from Pete, Kevin flopping down next to him, and shifts anxiously. "So..."

"How far along are you?" Palmer asks, tapping her pen against the clipboard in her lap. She has a severe face, but she keeps glancing at Ashlee's bright face, a small smile tucked into the corner of her mouth. 

"Twelve weeks," Patrick answers. "We went to the hospital a few days ago to get everything checked out. It's healthy and growing on time and. You know." This is quite possibly the most awkward conversation he's ever had. Palmer nods and scribbles something onto her notepad.

"We had Amanda draw up the papers earlier," Ashlee says, lifting a small stack of papers from the coffee table and handing it to him. Patrick skims through, but all he's really seeing are letters; a mass of jargon that just means he's handing the thing in his gut over in roughly six months. "We're willing to discuss open adoption-"

"No," Patrick cuts in, properly abashed when Kevin elbows him. "When it's born, the baby's yours. I don't. I'm just the biological parent, you know? Not the one that's going to, like, raise it and be, you know, parental." He winces because he kind of sounds like a dick. The look on Ashlee's face is cautiously optimistic.

"Are you sure that's what you want?" She asks, her eyes wide. 

"Yeah, no, definitely. This is your kid. I'm just." Patrick waves a hand at his stomach. It's becoming a familiar action. "Spawning it or whatever." On the couch, Pete laughs. 

"We're all agreed on a closed adoption, then?" Palmer waits for everyone's voiced agreements before scratching something down on her clipboard. "Give me a few moments to finalize the documents, and they'll be ready to sign."

"Awesome," Patrick says because it totally, totally is. "Uh. Can you point me in the direction of the bathroom?" Being pregnant, he's finding, is like having the world's smallest bladder. It's kind of really annoying.

Ashlee gives him quick directions, and he sets out, taking in the house as he goes. It's giant, filled with pictures of Pete and Ashlee being generally beautiful. A framed photo from their wedding hangs on the wall at the top of the stairs. Patrick sort of wishes that they could have kids of their own; they would be gorgeous.

The bathroom looks like the ocean threw up on it; there's shells on the walls in a neat line, decorative soaps in the shape of seahorses on the sink. Patrick gets a little too familiar with the meticulously painted picture of a sailboat that's hung over the toilet as he does his business. It's surreal.

Patrick takes a wrong turn somewhere on his way back to the living room and ends up in the master bedroom. It's shades of white and pale blue, neat all over. There's two dressers, each with a make-up case on top. One appears to only have different colors of eyeliner. 

He's wandering through the second floor when he hears footsteps coming up the stairs. The bathroom is far away enough now that he can't say that he's doing anything but snooping. Pete's head pops up over the banister, his dark eyes searching for a moment before they land on Patrick.

"Hey," he says. Patrick looks back at him guiltily. 

"Hey," he says back. "Ashlee send you to check on me?"

"Totally." Pete grins. It's infectious. "No rush, dude." They pass a room with a cracked door and Patrick pauses. Inside, there's a row of beautifully polished Les Pauls, shining up at him like beacons. Like he can't help it, Patrick pushes the door open and steps inside. 

"They're amazing," he says breathlessly, dropping down to his knees in front of one with a smooth mahogany finish. It's so shiny he can see his own awed face staring back. If he works for minimum wage for the next ten years, he'll still only be able to dream about one like this. A laugh from behind startles him.

"You play?" Pete asks as he slides into a rolling desk chair. Patrick snorts.

"Music's kind of my thing." He runs a fingertip down the smooth strings gingerly, listening to the soft rasp of his skin against the steel. 

"Play me something," Pete says. Patrick looks back at him wide-eyed.

"I can _play_ it?"

"Dude." Pete laughs again, a loud abrasive sound, and waves his hand at the guitar. "They throw these things at me. Go for it."

Patrick thumps down onto the floor and takes the guitar delicately from its stand. It's solid and heavy in his hands and across his thighs as he settles it on his lap, plugging it in to the tiny amp at Pete's feet. He strums an open chord with his thumb, eyes closing at the rich, full sound. 

The first thing he thinks to play is the Saves the Day song he's been working on with Joe, singing softly along over the rich chords. The neck is smooth against his palm, the fretboard solid and free of the cracks Patrick's gotten used to auto-correcting for. When he finishes, Pete claps. Patrick feels his cheeks go hot. He'd forgotten he'd had an audience.

"That's amazing." Pete's smile has gotten impossibly wide, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "You're kind of awesome."

Patrick tugs the brim of his hat lower over his face and tries not to grin like an idiot at the swell of pride eating through his chest. He can't stop running his hand over the body of the guitar, fingers tracking the grain. 

"You write?" Pete asks. Patrick nods. There's a few dozen notebooks shoved under his bed with melody after melody penned out by hand, waiting to be turned into something more. "I'm listening, dude."

It's weird. He's only played his stuff for Joe before, but the chance to play it on a guitar of this caliber is too good to pass up. He picks the melody out, humming along. He only has a handful of lyrics for it, but the vocal line has been eating at the back of his brain for forever, trying to struggle something out of him. 

"Do you have a band?" Pete asks when he's done. Patrick shakes his head. Him and Joe fucking around in his basement doesn't really constitute a band as such. "You should totally get one together. That's pretty impressive."

"You're just trying to butter me up so I'll give you my kid," Patrick says around a proud grin. Pete's smile freezes. Shit. "Hey, no. Fuck. I was just kidding. Baby's all yours, dude. Seriously." Pete doesn't seem to loosen, seems to actually get tighter around the shoulders. "Shit. I don't think before I talk. Sorry man-"

"It's cool," Pete interrupts. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Ashlee's voice calling up the stairs for him cuts him off. "We should get back."

Patrick nods, stroking the neck of the guitar before setting it back on the stand. Pete helps him to his feet, his hand warm and dry. Patrick takes another look at the guitar and sighs. 

"Take it," Pete says. Patrick looks at him, incredulous. Pete laughs. "Seriously. It's yours. You'll give a better home than I do."

"Are you sure?" Patrick asks, fingers already curling around the neck again. This beautiful instrument could be _his_.

"Take it or I'm gonna take it back," Pete threatens. Patrick doesn't have to be told twice. He clutches the guitar to his chest as they head back downstairs, holding it like a trophy. Ashlee looks at them strangely as they enter the room, and, while her head is turned, Kevin gives him a wide-eyed, horrified look. Patrick bites his lip to keep from laughing.

"Get lost?" Ashlee asks.

"Patrick was playing for me," Pete answers. "He's a talented kid."

"Also a pregnant kid that eats every hour," Kevin says. "You want to sign so we can get back for dinner?" Patrick crinkles his nose at his brother, but his stomach rumbling is answer enough. Food sounds awesome. He reaches for the pen by the papers, still holding onto the guitar. He's not letting this thing go until it's safe in his bedroom. He scribbles down his name where Palmer tells him to, handing the pen back when he's filled in all the blanks.

"Let us know if you need anything," Ashlee says as she leads him to the door. "Or if you have any doctors appointments or anything." She pauses, her fingers twisted in the edge of her blouse. "How sure are you about this? Like, on a scale?"

"Of one to ten?" He asks. Ashlee nods. "A thirty." Patrick lets her hug him again. It feels like his one of his mom's hugs. He shouts a quick thanks to Pete for the guitar before Kevin drags him to the car. 

"She talked to me about _fertility_ ," Kevin says as they're backing out of the driveway. "You owe me so hard, dude."

"You didn't have to come," Patrick points out. Kevin rolls his eyes and takes a left.

"I had to make sure they weren't going to cut the fetus out or something," he says. "So shut the fuck up and buy me a burger." Patrick grins into the body of the guitar and relents.

That night, after his shower, he wipes down the mirror and stares at himself. He's always been on the heavy side, puppy fat sticking stubbornly to his middle, but when he presses his fingers into the curve of his stomach, there's pressure pushing back. There's barely a difference on the outside, but he can tell, swiping his fingers over the solid curve that's starting. He wonders how long it's going to take until people start to notice.

\---

"I want pudding," Patrick says, staring at Joe's tray pointedly. Joe clutches the cup to his chest and bats at Patrick's reaching hand with his spoon.

"Nuh-uh," he says. "You ate your pudding. And my tater tots."

"I'm eating for your bastard child," Patrick chides, grasping hand managing to grab a few wilted carrot sticks on the way back. He munches on one contentedly.

He's getting used to the curious stares. At sixteen weeks the round, solid bump of his belly shows through even the largest of his t-shirts, obvious for what it is. He hears the whispers, sees the way they look at him. It stings, but Joe's at his side through all of it, bringing him back down. 

"So, the prom's soon," Joe says around a mouthful of pudding. Patrick nods and pops another mini carrot stick. "And, like, there's this girl, and, like, I'd totally get it if you wanted to go with me instead, and-"

"Breathing," Patrick says, amused. "You should try it." Joe sends him a sheepish shrug. "So, who is it?"

"Marie in pre-Calc," Joe answers. "So, you're cool with me asking her?" Patrick rolls his eyes.

"Why wouldn't I be?" He's staring longingly at the lunch line, only half into the conversation. Pudding really does sound super awesome.

"Because, you know." Joe flaps his elbow at Patrick's stomach. "Our bastard child." Patrick rolls his eyes again.

"We're not a thing," he reminds him. "You do have to marry me if your spawn wrecks my figure, though." Joe snorts. The tension in his shoulders disappears as he pushing the rest of his pudding towards Patrick's tray.

"Your ass is still fine," Joe reassures him. He looks relieved. It only hurts a little.

\---

"Cold," Patrick grits out, trying not to jerk away as the doctor smears jelly over his stomach. It's slimy and cold in the already chilly room, and his shirt is twisted awkwardly up under his armpits. Joe and Kevin, crowded in next to the table, prod gently at the spot next to the smear, looking at the changes on the screen from their fingers. The doctor bats their hands away irritably and presses the weird wand thing to his skin, searching. 

On the screen, in shifting black and white, is a picture of a tiny head.

"Holy shit," Kevin says, leaning in closer. Patrick can't speak, his mouth dry as the doctor points out a little arm and itty bitty toes. The baby is actually a _baby_. 

"Do you want to know the sex?" The doctor asks, moving the wand again. 

"I sort of want to surprise Pete and Ashlee," he replies. "Joe, do you want to know?"

"Kind of," Joe says, squinting at the screen. The fluorescent lights catch the dark roots of his hair growing in, the dark splotches of freckles across his cheeks. "Hey, it totally has my nose."

"Poor kid," Kevin remarks. Joe flips him off.

"You're the other father?" The doctor asks, eyes narrowed at Joe. Patrick frowns.

"Yeah," Joe answers. "Dude, it totally looks like me."

"Ashlee's going to be devistated," Patrick says dryly. 

"Is Ashlee a school friend?" The doctor asks as she begins wiping the jelly off. 

"She the adoptive mother." Patrick does his best not to arch up into the gentle pressure of the rag. A tummy massage would be great, but there's no way he's going to ask the two knuckleheads that have been following him around like guard dogs for one. He'd never hear the end of it. 

"Oh. Good." The doctor throws the rag away and reaches for another. Patrick bristles.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Kevin asks, the amusement gone from his face. 

"Teenage parents are irresponsible," she says. "And two teenage boys-"

"My brother fucked up once, but he's dealing with it." Kevin steps around the table, closer to the doctor, his face going an angry red. "And those sixteen year old boys would love this kid more than anyone else ever could if they kept it, but they're being _responsible_ and handing it over to someone who can handle it better. How about you print the damn picture and keep your mouth shut about people you don't know?"

The doctor clenches her jaw but heads over to the computer in the corner of the room. Joe whistles, and Patrick takes in Kevin's flushed, angry face with wide eyes. He's never loved his brother more.

Patrick pulls his shirt over his stomach as Joe collects the bill and the ultrasound photo, letting Kevin help him slide off the table. If he leans into him as they're walking to the parking lot, no one says anything.

The baby, as it turns out, is a boy.

\---

Patrick knocks on the heavy wood door, ultrasound photo in his hand. After they had dropped Joe off, Patrick had asked for the car. It took a few minutes of wheedling and a little bribing, but Kevin had finally relented and. Well. Here he is. Pete answers the door, the surprise clear on his face as Patrick enters the house.

"Hey," he says. "I didn't expect to see you. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, definitely." Patrick stands in front of him in the kitchen and smiles. "I just had an ultrasound. You wanted updates, right? Is Ashlee home?" 

"No," Pete answers. "She's at work."

"Oh." Patrick frowns. Still, he holds the photo up in front of Pete's face proudly, peering around it to take in Pete's face. "Baby's first photo." Pete takes it carefully, like it'll burn him. 

"Yeah," he says. "It is." The air feels uncomfortable. Patrick clears his throat.

"So, why aren't you hard at work too?" He asks. Lame. Lame on so many levels. 

"I work at home," Pete says. "I, uh, run a record label." Patrick raises an eyebrow. Because, really? Pete in his rumpled hoodie and tight jeans looks closer to fifteen than thirty, his hair sticking up in angles at the back of his head. He grins, dimples in his cheeks, at Patrick's disbelief. "DecayDance off Fueled by Ramen." 

"Seiously?" Patrick asks, because, woah. That. Actually makes sense. He tries to listen as Pete tells him about how the thing came to be, but Patrick's too impressed to actually take it in. Rich, married to a hot woman, _and_ owner of a record label? Dude's life is too awesome to exist.

"You with me?" Pete asks. He waves a hand in front of Patrick's face, a little smug.

"Do you have a studio here?" Patrick blurts and immediately cringes. It sounds overeager. He can't help it.

"Totally," Pete laughs. "Come on." He leads the way, his socks scuffing on the carpet as he walks. 

The studio dominates the basement. There's a mixing board and a sound set up on one side, a gigantic recording booth on the other. It's a rich as the rest of the house, everything a rustic sort of aesthetic that probably cost more money than Patrick can even imagine, and Patrick fins himself drawn straight to the mixing board, hovering around it.

"I'm suitably impressed," he says, running his fingers over the knobs and sliders gently.

"You know how to use that thing?" Pete asks. Patrick shakes his head. In his dreams maybe. The sound of Pete pulling up a chair makes him look up. "Ash won't be home for a few hours. Want to learn?"

\---

"You're kidding," Patrick says three hours later, still tucked into the studio chair. There's a remix of a Britney Spears song on the computer that's not bad for a first attempt, and Pete's telling him a ridiculous story about the frontman from Midtown.

"I wish." Pete lifts his foot onto the edge of the mixing board and rolls up the leg of his jeans. Above his ankle is one of the shittiest portrait tattoos Patrick has ever seen- not that he has much to go on- that looks vaguely like a ten year old version of Gabe Saporta.

"That's pretty much the ugliest thing I've ever seen," Patrick remarks because, hey. He tries squinting his eyes but, even though it makes the lines go fuzzy, it doesn't do much help.

"Yeah, seriously." Pete pushes his pant leg down and lets his foot drop back to the floor. "I thought Ash was gonna cut it off with a butcher knife, dude."

"How'd you make it up to her?" Patrick asks. Pete hasn't really brought his wife up much in conversation, more focused on music and bands and his ridiculous group of friends. Pete shrugs, looking down at his hands.

"I agreed to adopt a kid?" He shrugs again, smiling weakly. Patrick feels a little ill.

"You want it too, right?" He asks. _Please_ , he thinks.

"Yeah," Pete says softly. A door closing upstairs makes him jump. He looks at Patrick sheepishly before saving the remix and closing down the computer. "Hey, take this." He digs through the drawer over Patrick's lap before coming up triumphantly with a CD in a jewel case.

"Thanks," Patrick says as he takes it. "What is it?" Pete laughs.

"It's a mixtape. Gabe's been on this kick or something." He writes something on a post-it note before sticking it to the jewel case. It reads _rick's to remix mixtape_. "I expect new arrangements the next time you come over."

"Yeah?" Patrick grins. He can totally do that. Pete helps him up the stairs with a warm hand on his back. Patrick's getting used to the extra weight at his front, but it's still nice to have the extra support. 

"Patrick?" Ashlee asks as soon as they enter the kitchen. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Everything's great." Patrick reaches for the ultrasound photo on the counter and holds it up for her. "I wanted to show you this." Ashlee takes it with shaking hands, gentle. "There's an arm and, well, it kind of has Joe's nose. Sorry about that. Oh, hey, there's a foot." Patrick points to the various parts of the image, rambling a little in the wake of Ashlee's silence. 

"It's beautiful," she breathes finally, smiling at the photo. Patrick beams. Score one for his weird genes.

"Do you want to know the sex?" He asks. She shakes her head but Pete, still in the doorway, nods. Patrick takes a step back, angling himself behind Ashlee, and mouths _boy_ over her shoulder. Pete nods again. The clock next to his head reads six o clock, and, like it's been cued, Patrick's stomach rumbles. "I should go home. Mom'll freak if I'm not home for dinner."

"Thank you," Ashlee says, already moving to pin the photo to the refrigerator. Patrick waves his goodbye absently, mind already on the remixes.

\---

"You went over there?" Joe asks on the way to pre-Calc. Patrick shrugs, reaching into Joe's bag for his homework. One of the perks of being pregnant is that he no longer has to tote around his own junk. It's sort of awesome, minus the whole baby thing. "Is that, like, normal?"

"Probably not," he says. "But Pete's a pretty cool guy. He owns a record label. Like a _for real label._ He showed me how to run a mixer."

"Cool." Joe pauses, and Patrick's four steps down the hall before he notices Joe's not beside him anymore.

"Dude?"

"Marie's there," Joe says in way of an answer. And, yeah, she's been in the same class as them all year, so it sort of is a given. Patrick pulls a face at him that clearly reads _get your shit together, Trohman_ , but Joe has apparently gone stupid. 

"Jesus," Patrick hisses. His back is killing him, the edge of heartburn starting up in his chest, and if Mrs. Keller down the hall doesn't stop looking at him like he's a giant mound of crawling bugs he's going to freak the fuck out right now. "Just ask her out." When Joe doesn't move, Patrick turns and heads for class without him.

"Hi, Patrick," Marie says when he stops in front of her. Patrick's never really talked to her, never really had a reason, but Joe's being a giant pussy, so now's as good a time as any to start.

"Hey," he says. "So Joe-" he points to clarify, ignoring Joe's dinner plate sized eyes "-wants to ask you to prom. Should he do it?" Marie smiles shyly, her eyes dropping down to sneaker level. 

"Yeah," she says, soft. Like anyone could say no to a date with Joe Trohman. Patrick grins and throws a thumbs-up to Joe before heading into the room.

Class starts on time. Joe hugs him on his way to his desk.

\---

"You're offending my delicate sensibilities," Patrick says, reaching for the remote to the stereo. Celine Dion's harpy cry changes to smooth jazz. So much better, Jesus Christ. Pete laughs.

They're in the living room, Patrick half sprawled on the couch, one hand over his increasingly large stomach, the other wrapped securely around the remote. Pete's not getting it back unless he plans on fighting for it. He's at twenty-four weeks and the baby has started kicking. It was cool the first time, but the tiny elbows and fist to his kidneys are getting old pretty quick. 

He's been visiting on Fridays after school, dropping by hesitantly for the past month and a half. Pete welcomes him warmly each time though, so maybe he's not being as obtrusive as Joe keeps telling him he is. Pete's loud and brash, but he's also funny and really, really smart. His taste in music is questionable at best, but his company is absolutely golden. 

Last week, he had let Patrick sit in on a studio session with Midtown, even let Patrick try his hand at mixing the raw tracks. It wasn't great, but Pete had said he had an ear for how it should be, that he just needed to hone the technique. Gabe- who was as ridiculous as Pete's stories said he was- had dropped to his knees and pressed his ear to Patrick's stomach, declaring to Patrick's red face that he could hear the baby's heartbeat.

It had been surreal, to say the least.

"Dude, it's high school dance required listening," Pete says, making a half-hearted attempt to grab the remote. Patrick holds the remote over his head, and, unless Pete squashes the baby bump with his entire body, there's no way he's going to reach it. Pregnancy perk number two: a fantastic shield. 

"Good thing I don't do the whole high school dance thing, then," he says, flipping the channel again. Sinatra's voice croons softly through Pete's amazing sound system. Patrick rubs his belly and thinks about all the music that the tiny thing in him will get to listen to when it's born and hopes that Ashlee is better versed in it than Pete.

"That's, like, a right of passage. You don't get a do-over with that shit." Pete looks vaguely offended, like Patrick's insulted him. Patrick rolls his eyes. "No, seriously. It's shitty, and you can't drink because of the whole-" he waves a hand at the mountain that is Patrick's midsection- "but you'll look back at it in ten years and think it was the best thing ever."

"You were prom king, weren't you?" Patrick asks, narrowing his eyes. His chest feels weird when Pete gives him a toothy grin. He accounts it to heartburn.

"Totally. Your choice is go or be subjected to my prom photobook," Pete says brightly. Patrick flips the channel to rock and tries not to notice how warm Pete's hand on his shin feels. 

"I'll think about it," he says instead.

\---

"I thought prom was, like, the ultimate evil, or something," Joe says, smushing the x button on the controller in his hand. It's totally cheating. Patrick moves Chun-Li across the screen and does some cheating of his own. 

"I just, you know. Thought it might be fun." It tastes weird in his mouth. He'd still been subjected to Pete's prom photos, but it had been pretty tolerable. He'd laughed through the dreadlocks and powder blue tux, tucked up warm next to Pete on the couch until the baby kicked him in the ribs. 

"I don't know you," Joe says, booing as Ken's KO'ed. "Is the kid controlling your brain or something?" He switches to mashing the triangle button. It's marginally a better strategy.

"Stop doing that," Patrick says, digging his elbow into Joe's bicep. "It's just. I don't know. Pete said something about it."

"I see." Joe's a little less bright, his thick eyebrows drawing together slowly. Patrick doesn't like the way it looks. He feels a stab of emotion that he can't place in his chest. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks sharply, jamming his thumb viciously into the square button. Ken goes down again. Joe drops his controller to the floor, leaning back against the chair behind them. It's The Chair and Patrick can't look at it without getting a hot rush of memories.

"It's just, like." Joe rolls his head to the side, looking at Patrick like he's searching for something. "You know how I had that crush on Sam Jones last year, and how it was totally a bad idea?" Patrick nods because, yeah, no, that had been Joe's worst idea _ever_. "Pete's your Sam Jones."

"Only not." Patrick sets his controller down and rests his hands on the swell of his stomach. His legs are sprawled out on the floor in front of him; getting up is going to be a bitch. He feels a little sick, the taste of lunch rising up the back of his throat. "He's the baby's dad. That's it."

"Dude," Joe says slowly, " _I'm_ the baby's dad." There's a moment of stillness, then Joe's leaning in, hot mouth over Patrick's. It's warm and familiar, and all Patrick can see is the flash of Pete's smile behind his eyelids. The baby kicks. Joe pulls back.

Shit.

"You should stop going over there," Joe says softly. Patrick nods. His heart's racing in his chest. He feels dizzy. Joe smoothes a hand over Patrick's stomach, his fingers splayed over the stretched cotton of Patrick's t-shirt. He bumps their foreheads together and grins before pulling back. "Hey, if you get your date pregnant, you can totally bond."

"You're a dick," Patrick replies through the ache in his chest. Joe's eyes go wide.

"Hey, can you still, you know?" He makes a deliberately rude gesture, laughing when Patrick punches him. "I guess you could still take it on your-"

"If you finish that, I swear to god I'll rip your balls off."

"Whatever you say, O fertile one," Joe snickers. His arm is warm against Patrick's, his leg resting comfortably over Patrick's thighs. 

Patrick has never felt so isolated.

\---

Patrick runs into Ashlee at McDonalds. 

He's been dying for a burger all day and the line is long and his feet _hurt_. A familiar voice makes him turn, and there's Ashlee and a woman that looks something similar to her, playing with a little girl in the ball pit.

It's ridiculous; Ashlee's in nice clothes, her hair up in pins, wading into the pit after the kid, her smile splitting her face. The little girl shrieks when Ashlee tickles her, tiny hands curling around Ashlee's delicate wrist. Patrick can't stop watching her. 

The girl at the register pops her gum and rings Patrick up without actually looking at him, which is kind of an amazing feat. He takes his tray and navigates his way to a booth, wincing when he sees how close it is to the kid zone. 

"Patrick?" Ashlee asks, a little breathless, her hair a mess. The other woman is with her, holding the kid on her hip like a pro. Patrick swallows his bite of burger and waves. He feels guilty looking at her, thinking about the days he's spent holed up with her husband. He musters up a smile. Eleven more weeks until the Big Event, and then he'll never have to see Pete or Ashlee again and his life will go back to absolute normalcy. "Hi. This is my sister, Jessica. Jess, this is Patrick. He's the one I was telling you about."

"Hi," he says weakly. A vicious little foot or elbow stabs at the space under his belly button and he nearly drops his soda.

"Are you okay?" Ashlee asks, reaching out to stabilize his hand. Patrick takes a deep breath and nods. The little fucker's got it out for him. 

"Baby's kicking," he says.

"Oh." Ashlee touches her fingers to her chin, and the look on her face tells Patrick what's coming. He lifts the hem of his shirt up a little in preparation, ducking his head. At least she's going to ask. He's getting tired of being assaulted in the halls by cooing teenagers. It's weird. "Can I feel?"

"Go for it," he says, watching her face go through a quick flash of _excitednervousterrifiedhappy_. Her hand is cool and small, her fingers spread apart over the stretched skin of his stomach. She's staring at the spaces between them, biting her lower lip. For the first time in days, the baby's obnoxiously still.

"It's not kicking for me," Ashlee says after a long moment. It hurts, the sad lilt of her voice. 

"It can hear," Jessica says, hitching the little girl up higher on her hip. "Try singing to it." Patrick shrugs. He does it to keep the little bastard still. Maybe it'll work in reverse for her.

Ashlee pauses for a moment, her face pinched, before she kneels in front of him, her sides touching the insides of Patrick's knees. He does his best not to turn it into anything it isn't because she's a beautiful woman and this is totally not that time. Her hand slides over his weirdly out-poking belly button and stills.

Ashlee has a nice voice, sweet and a little nasal. The words are like a lullaby, and the longer she sings, the sadder she looks. She trails off, biting her lip again. She looks defeated. As she begins to pull away, her fingertips sliding smooth over Patrick's skin, the baby kicks.

"It kicked for me," she says, excited, looking up at him with something like awe. He can't help the answering smile. The baby kicks again, harder, which hurts something on his insides, but Ashlee laughs, pressing her palm flat.

The look on her face alone is enough to convince Patrick that he's made the right choice.

\---

"So what's the update, PStump?" Pete's tinny voice asks over the phone. Patrick's standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, shirt tossed haphazardly over the tank of the toilet, staring at the strange swell of his belly. He misses his feet, he decides, prodding the spot where the curve starts. The baby pushes back.

"Two _no's_ and a _maybe next year_ , which translates directly into _maybe when you're not a beached whale_." Patrick rubs the weird lotion his mom bought him onto the pink marks that are already forming at his sides, jerking his head to adjust the phone on his shoulder. It's hot, been in use too long. By talking on the phone, he's totally not breaking any of Joe's suggested Rules of Pete Conduct. If he doesn't tell Joe that he's doing it, well. He doesn't answer to anyone but his mom.

"What about your baby daddy?"

"Hi, yeah, can you never say that again? Thanks." Patrick rolls his eyes at Pete's abrasive laugh, snagging his shirt and heading back to his room. He ignores that he's waddling more than walking. "He's going with the girl in pre-Calc."

"You two aren't together?" Pete asks. It sounds like he's chewing something crunchy. Carrots maybe. Patrick's stomach grumbles. He ate three plates of his mother's tuna casserole thirty minutes ago. Food sounds disgusting even in thought. 

"No," Patrick says maybe too quickly. He swallows back the urge to say _I'm not seeing anyone_. Not the time, the place, or the person. Pete hums. The line's silent for a moment.

"When is it again?" Pete asks. The soft sound of a familiar remix is playing in the background. Patrick can pick out the spots where he'd been distracted. 

"May fourth," he answers. The date's circled on his calendar in green pen, surrounded with doctor's appointments and the due date's highlighted square. Pete hums again.

"Keep looking, dude," he says finally. "You're a treasure. Just gotta wait for someone to dig you up."

\---

"So, not to sound weird, but how, exactly, am I. You know." Patrick waves at the spot between his thighs- well, sort of- and tries to convey _penis here, thanks_. The doctor raises his eyebrows. Joe laughs. "Uh. Giving birth?" Weirdest sentence to date, he thinks. He has to _give birth_.

"Cesarean section," the doctor answers. "I'll make an incision here," he draws a line across the lower section of Patrick's stomach, "and deliver the baby through it." Patrick winces. Joe shudders next to him. Gross.

"Am I, like, going to be awake for all of this?" Patrick asks. The doctor nods.

"We use a regional anesthetic to numb the lower half," he says, tugging his blue medical gloves off. "You'll be awake, but you won't be able to feel a thing."

Patrick thanks the doctor, collects his bill, and lets Joe help him to the car. For the first time since deciding to keep the baby, he's terrified. 

"It could be worse," Joe says as he pulls out of the parking lot. "You could have to, like, deliver it via ass or something."

"You're the worst dad ever, Trohman."

"I can totally video tape it." Joe takes the turn to his place instead of Patrick's. "Your face is going to be _hilarious_." Patrick touches the space where the doctor had drawn his imaginary line and wonders if he can just stay pregnant forever.

\---

"Hi," Patrick says in the doorway, one hand on the handle, the other bracing his back. "How did you get my address?"

"The internet," Pete says, breezing by. He's in a hoodie that Patrick vaguely recognizes from the closet in the studio, his hair flat against his forehead. Patrick closes the door and makes his way slowly to the couch. He more falls backwards onto it than sits on it. 

"The internet isn't the best place for facts, dude," Patrick says. He feels himself go tight when Pete settles next to him, leaning in against his shoulder.

"It found me you, so." Pete grabs the remote from the side table like it's not the first time he's been in Patrick's mother's home and turns the channel to Cartoon Network. He toggles the menu screen for a few moments, his leg jittering against Patrick's. "You stopped visiting." It sounds sad. Patrick's tired of disappointing everyone.

"I got behind on homework," he says. He's finished his homework for the next two months in preparation for the Big Event. Pete doesn't know that and swallows it easily, bobbing his head and giving Patrick a smile. Patrick's heart beats double time.

"I was starting to think you didn't like me anymore," Pete says, but it's cheery. Bright. "So, when's your date picking you up for prom?"

"I think I'm going to just stay home." Patrick doesn't pull away when Pete throws an arm over the back of the couch, his hand resting warm over the curve of Patrick's shoulder. Pete pinches him. "What the fuck?"

"Hi, I'm going to pick you up Saturday at eight." He ignores Patrick's stammering _no_ , pulling Patrick tighter against his side. "I'll pay for your tux and you'll have a great night and nothing you say is going to change my mind." Patrick's heart stutters. Fuck it all.

"You're married?" Patrick tries.

"Ashlee'll take pictures."

"You're thirty?"

"Age is just a number," Pete leers.

"I'm about twelve sizes too big for any tux ever made?"

"Custom tailor on twelfth makes great suits." Pete hits the off button on the remote and turns to him, oddly serious. "Look, just let me make it good for you, okay? I want to do that for you." Patrick pauses, breathing slowly. Joe's going to kill him. 

"Yeah," he says softly. "Sure."

\---

The baby won't stop kicking. It's not even that it hurts, it's just. He wants it to stop. Patrick has a hand pressed to his stomach, leaned forward on the couch. He's in his stupid white dress shirt and his stupid, weirdly cut jacket and the fedora Pete had bought as a final touch, _freaking out_ , and the baby won't just _leave him the fuck alone_. He doesn't need this, doesn't want this, wants to be _normal_ again.

"Ready?" Pete asks, poking in his head in through the front door. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Yeah." Patrick straightens up and adjusts his hat, breathing slow. He can do this. He can do this and not fuck it up, and there's just two weeks left until the baby's due, and then he'll never see Pete again and that shouldn't _hurt_.

Pete looks phenominal in a tuxedo. It's traditional black, matches Patrick's right down to the ugly little stitching at the lapel that looks like a bat. His hair is swept across his forehead, neat instead of the usual mess that Patrick's used to seeing. He smiles his big, goofy smile and Patrick smiles back. Joe is going to _kill_ him. 

"You look great," Pete says as he's helping Patrick into his SUV, one hand on Patrick's elbow, the other on the small of his back. Patrick snorts. He can feel Kevin watching from the upstairs window. It's creepy. 

"I look like a bloated penguin."

"A hot bloated penguin," Pete corrects. Patrick tries to fight back the hot rush to his face. A quick glance at the side mirror tells him he's failing pretty terribly. He laughs weakly. Pete doesn't. Instead, he talks about his prom, tells a story he's already told before. Patrick's grateful. He doesn't think he could carry the right conversation. 

Joe looks pissed. Marie is next to him, beautiful in her long blue dress, hair done up in a cute little bun at the top of her head. She smiles at Patrick as he waddles his way to them, wincing at the dark look Joe gives him. Pete's hand on his back is burning through his jacket and shirt, straight through into his back.

"Hey," he says. Joe narrows his eyes, but Patrick's all wrapped up in Marie's arms, the sweet floral smell of her perfume surrounding him. It's comforting, but it doesn't last long enough. He bites his lip and raises his eyebrows at Joe. It's supposed to mean _please don't say anything, please let me enjoy this_ , but he's not sure if Joe can read him at all any more.

The inside of the gym looks like a gaggle of screaming sixteen year olds attacked it. Balloons tied into bunches hang from the rafters with bright rolls of crepe paper. Cardboard stars are on the tables dragged in from the cafeteria, painted glittery yellow and silver. There are candles, which seems particularly hazardous, but. It's kind of awesome in a way Patrick will never, ever admit.

People look at him- they always look at him, it's becoming familiar ground- but they're looking at Pete, too. He looks young, his bright grin younger, but he's still too old to be at a high school dance, on the arm of a junior. This idea is getting worse by the second.

"Let's dance," Pete says, mouth close to Patrick's ear to be heard over the bouncy pop music that the DJ is playing. Patrick looks at him incredulously. He's got to be _kidding_ , right? Without waiting for an actual answer, Pete drags him into the mess of people already dancing. Kids part for them like they're contagious. 

Somehow, it's actually fun. Pete can't dance, which isn't really a surprise, and Patrick can't move much anyway, gets easily out of breath if he tries, but Pete keeps laughing, and Patrick can't do anything but laugh with him. Marie cuts in through the second dance, and she's a better dancer for sure. The music stays bright, and he sings along with some of it, Joe and Pete close by, and maybe this whole prom thing isn't going to suck like he thought it would.

Joe gets him for the first slow dance, cutting in before Pete gets the chance. Patrick's not really sure if he's happy about it or not. It's awkward, Patrick's stomach pressed to Joe's, their elbows angled strangely around it. Joe's hips feel familiar under his hands, though, and the rhythm over the sound system is too easy for either one of them to fuck up.

"What are you doing?" Joe asks halfway in, looking somewhere over Patrick's shoulder. When they turn, Patrick can see Pete turning Marie in a neat circle, ridiculous and endearing. 

"Dancing," Patrick says. It's not going to work, but it'll buy him time, and the song's crawling closer and closer to over. Joe's fingers go tight on his shoulders.

"Patrick, dude, don't." He shakes his head when Patrick pulls back. The song's over, and he's running away. 

"My turn?" Pete asks, already wrapping his arm around Patrick's waist. He takes Patrick's hand in his, and Patrick can't do anything but laugh when Celine Dion's voice pours out of the speakers. "Told you," Pete says around his grin. 

It's different than dancing with Joe. Pete leads with something like confidence, and Patrick's almost impressed by the change. He's pretty sure his palm is slick against Pete's, which is gross, but Pete's not saying anything about it, not saying anything at all, really, just smiling and occasionally singing along in a low, rough voice to the shitty love song. The room drops off, just noise and blurs of things that used to be people, and Patrick can't look anywhere else. 

Therefore, it shouldn't be a surprise when Pete leans in and kisses him, a soft brush of his mouth over Patrick's, the sweet of his cologne lingering after he's already pulled back, but, oh, it is. It's then that Patrick realizes he can't feel Pete's wedding band, then that he looks over and sees that it's gone, then that he sees the happy family he'd seen for the baby shattering to pieces.

"I'm leaving Ashlee," Pete breathes out against Patrick's mouth, leaning in again. Patrick jerks back, nearly tumbles over, saved by Pete's arm still tight around his waist.

"No," he says, chest tight. "You can't. You can't _do_ that." It's wrong, and he's half in love with Pete, but Pete's _Ashlee's_ and he's supposed to raise the baby with her, and it's all _wrong_ now. Joe was right, and Patrick's fucked up so many lives in such a short time. "Let go of me."

"Patrick-"

"Let go," he says again, three seconds from yelling. He needs to be out. The lights are hurting his eyes, the music making a thick, pulsing headache at the back of his skull, and the places where Pete's touching him are on fire, burning his skin.

"I'll take you home," Pete says, like there's no room for discussion. He unwraps his arm from Patrick's waist but grabs his hand, linking their fingers. Patrick nearly laughs. Here it is. He's getting what he wanted. He feels ill. "Patrick wants to go home," Pete tells Joe, tugging at Patrick's hand before Joe can say anything. Patrick can see Marie holding Joe's arm as they turn down the hall, holding him back. 

Pete helps him into the SUV- _it's a family car_ , Patrick thinks sadly- and climbs into the driver's side, throwing his jacket into the back. It rumples and slides to the floor, a few hundred dollars down the drain. The sound of the engine starting makes Patrick wince, too loud in the sudden silence.

Pete doesn't head straight to Patrick's house. Patrick isn't surprised. He watches out the window, sees the Chicago skyline in the distance. When Pete parks in the lot of an old video store, he doesn't look over. 

"She was pregnant," Pete says after he cuts the engine. It rings in the car, echoes around. "It was a still birth, a couple of months after the wedding." He sounds tired, dragged out and old. The laugh that follows hurts. "I didn't want kids, but it was the responsible thing to do. I never had a reason to leave until now."

"And what's your reason?" Patrick asks tightly, his jaw stiff. He knows, but he doesn't want to hear it.

"You." 

"Please don't." Patrick looks over at him, looks at the soft lines at the edges of Pete's eyes and feels his heart skip. He's a traitor and his heart's a traitor and nothing's right at all.

"I never felt like this about anyone," Pete says, running a hand through his hair. "You just. You came into my life and it was like a fucking wrecking ball." Patrick winces. "Fucking- fucking _Gabe_ said something about it. He tried to warn me off you like it was something I could control."

"Pete-"

"I want to be with you," Pete cuts in, slumping back against the driver's side door. "Amanda already has the paperwork drawn." 

"Does Ashlee know you're here?"

"I moved out yesterday," Pete says softly. The surge of anger that hits Patrick is strong enough to make him dizzy. He wants to scream, wants to yell, wants to ask _how could you do this?_

"Take me home." 

Pete does.

\---

The note is short, scrawled out on the back of his prom ticket in Sharpie. He slides it under the door and knocks, making his way quickly back to the car where Kevin's waiting. 

They're gone before Ashlee makes it downstairs.

\---

Nothing has ever been scarier in his life.

He's in a wheelchair, Joe pushing him back and forth, Kevin and Marie hovering on either side. His mom is filling paperwork out at the desk, looking as frazzled as Patrick feels. His heart's fluttering in his chest as he thinks _this is it, this is the Big Event, it's almost over_. It's terrifying.

"Mr. Stump?" 

The doctor's there, clinical in his scrubs. Patrick nods, his stupid paper gown rustling as he shifts in the wheelchair. His boxers are cutting into his stomach and he thinks a little hysterically that something else is going to be cutting into his stomach in roughly ten minutes. Kevin places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It only kind of helps.

"You'll be fine," his mother says, kissing his damp forehead. She tugs his hat away, tears in her eyes as Joe wheels him away, following the doctor to the operating room. 

It's a blur of scrubs and Joe telling him to calm down and Joe's hand in his as the doctor pulls the _biggest needle in the world_ out and tells him to hunch over. He screws his eyes shut and thinks about his knees and his shins and his _feet_ , all of which he hasn't seen for months, and does his best not to move when he feels the needle press in.

"You're good," Joe says to him, voice wavering. It probably has something to do with the bone shattering grip Patrick has on his hand, but Patrick's too focused on the strange feel of the doctor's hands floating away from his body, on the strange way that he's losing track of his toes and legs.

Time speeds and slows. The doctor lays him back, Joe's hand stays in his. There's a scalpel and a smear of yellow brown something over his stomach, and then. Oh. Oh holy shit. He can _see_ , why can he _see_ that? Joe looks away, his face tinged green, and there's the doctor talking and a weird tugging which is something _being pulled from his gut into the world_ , Jesus, and then the sound of wailing.

Their son, as it turns out, is beautiful. 

\---

Ashlee names him James. She looks terrified, her arms cradling the tiny bundle carefully. Patrick's not supposed to be walking around, not supposed to have left his room, but Kevin and Joe had finally left him alone for all of ten minutes, and he needed to see the nursery, needed to know that Ashlee knew which baby was hers. 

"One day, you'll have one just for you," his mother says. He's startled, guilty. She smiles because she knows him well, wrapping him up in a gentle hug. "You've made her the happiest woman in the world today." He doesn't think about the wedding band that she's not wearing, doesn't think about the flowers in his room, doesn't think about anything but the way Ashlee looks holding her son. 

\---

Pete visits him after hours. Patrick's not sure how he gets in, doesn't really want to know. He lets Pete curl up on the bed next to him, lets him curl an arm around him, careful of the incision low on his belly. Patrick feels alien without the baby's constant movements. Alone. Pete holds him and Patrick doesn't cry. 

"This brought you to me," Pete says against the back of his neck, lips pressed to the damp skin. Patrick nods and doesn't think _fair trade_ , because it's not. 

"I'm sorry," Patrick says, because he has a lot of apologizing to do and he might as well start now.

"Don't be."

\---

Even though it's a closed adoption, Ashlee sends him pictures. They're carefully labeled for just him, envelopes filled with polaroids and snapshots. James looks more like Joe than Patrick, more like Ashlee than he really should. He grows from tiny bundle to chunky baby to chunky toddler. He has Joe's nose and Patrick's eyes, and Joe smiles at every picture, Marie cooing along with him.

She doesn't go to Patrick's graduation when it comes- he didn't expect her to, didn't want her to- but Pete does, sat in the front row, smiling next to Patrick's mother. Joe helps him move into Pete's apartment, doesn't guilt him like he rightfully should. Patrick loves him for it, is happy Joe's the one he's gone through this with.

Sometimes, when he sees Ashlee in the edges of the photos, he thinks _fair trade_ and doesn't feel guilty about it. When Pete lays in bed with him, stupid face and stupid smile and gentle fingers on the scar that sits low on Patrick's stomach, Patrick thinks he'd never take it back, even if he could.


End file.
